Friends, 

              Sometimes strange things turn up on the banks of the Great Salt Lake--which is where I found this little guy. I wasn't quite sure what to think of him, so maybe a poem in his honor was worth a try--or maybe not--you decide:

         

Ode To a Salt Cured Opossum

There you are . . .

laying,

not playing

“opossum”.

All of your problems

are obscured

and cured.

As you lay--

there you’ll stay

in a perpetual brine . . .

not for all time--

but for now.

So let me pay tribute

to your current state

the late Mr. Salt Cured Opossum . . .

Farewell!